brought news to a farm of a strange
thing at the drift, a tale of violent death at criminal
hands. Straightway four men got to horse and rode over.
Arriving, they found their information justified in a
strange fashion. Seated in the deep southern approach to
the water was a Boer woman, a young one, pillowing on her
lap the head of a murdered man, whose body oozed blood from
a dozen wounds. The woman paid no heed to the approach of
the Burghers, and they, on nearing the body, observed that
her eyes were fixed across the spruit, and that a smile, a
dreadful twisted smile of contempt, ruled her face as
though frozen there.

The woman was recognized as a girl of good Boer family who
had recently married in opposition to the strong objections
of her family; the dead man at her feet was soon
identified as all that was left of her husband.

That was the tale: it ended there like a broken string, for
while the matter was under investigation at the hands of
the feldkornet, a Kafir chief in the Magaliesberg commenced
to assert himself and the commando of the district was
called out to wait on him. And there the matter dropped,
for during the two years that elapsed before she died the
woman never uttered a word. But (and here, for me, at any
rate, the wonder of the story commenced) every day and all
day, come fine or rain, sun or storm, there she would sit
in the drift, damning the traitor's road of escape with
that smile the Burghers had shuddered at. The scene, and
the unspeakable sadness of it, used to govern my dreams.

I was telling Katje the story, for she said she had never
heard it, but this I since learned to have been untrue. At
first the conversation had been varied even to the point of
inanity, but in time it turned--as such conversations will,
you know--to the wonder and beauty of the character of women
in general. I think it must have been at this stage that
the Vrouw Grobelaar, who had been dozing like a dog, with
one ear awake, commenced to listen; and I have always
thought the better of the good lady for not annihilating
the situation with some ponderously arch comment, as was a
habit of hers.

When my tale was finished, though, the contempt of the
artist for the mere artisan moved her to complete the
record.

"You are wrong when you say the truth never came to light,"
she said. "I know the whole story."

"But," I answered in surprise, "nothing was ever done in
the matter."

"Certainly not," she s